Tabatha Deans

Bringing Integrity to the Written Word

Judge Not

After a few months of withholding eggs due to cold weather and ill tempers, our chickens, four total, have been blessing us with three to four eggs each day. One has only recently started laying, but her eggs are a beautiful light blue color. We have filled egg cartons for friends and family, and have counted our blessing in the form of omelettes, quiche and boiled eggs.

With beautiful weather we spent last weekend cleaning out the coop, then re-fenced the chicken yard in preparation for summer. While the chickens are social animals and everyone likes to interact with them, left without boundaries they run rampant and leave their droppings everywhere. The new fence cut several yards off their world, and being temperamental, the girls immediately began punishing us for this transgression by denying us eggs. A trip to the egg box began yielding one egg a day, maybe two if we were lucky.

Robert tried bribing them with treats, in the form of dried worms, but to no avail. I visited with them from the porch every evening, watching them judge me. I judged them for judging me. Silly birds. There was nothing to do but wait until they were done being mad and started laying again, and I was slightly perturbed at the thought of having to go buy eggs from the grocery store again.They squawked at me, I glared at them, and we silently agreed to keep our judgments to ourselves.

Yesterday I ventured out to do a perimeter check of the fence. Specifically a small space between their house and our house, where I had re-located the woodpile to form a barrier behind their house. I was concerned they had weakened the pile from their side, so I peeked over the wood to see if it was still strong.

And what to my wondering eyes should appear? Nearly two dozen eggs, just laying there. Obviously they had not stopped laying eggs at all, but had merely found a much better place to leave them than in the designated egg box. They danced around me as I stood back in wonder, then shame at the ill thoughts I had harbored toward them.

Needless to say they have been feasting on guilt-ridden worm treats since, while I have, almost literally, been wiping eggs off my face.

March 23, 2016 Posted by | Uncategorized | , , , , , , , , | 1 Comment

Reality Check

I’ve always considered myself a pretty courteous person. In fact I get a good amount of pleasure out of doing things for other people. I always offer my seat to the elderly on the bus, or let the person with just one or two items cut in front of me at the grocery store. I delight in leaving little notes or treats for the people I love. My heart swells with joy at every good deed, and I imagine how much better I have made the lives of those that I have helped. In my reality, which I admit is often along the lines of rainbows and unicorns, everyone is eternally grateful for my kind deeds.

Well, most of the time anyway.

Recently I’ve noticed that Robert’s vial of Lantus, the nighttime insulin we both take, is often tipped over on the shelf in the medicine cabinet. Partly because I am a constant tidier, and partly because I like to do nice things, I have, on a daily basis, righted the offending bottle and placed it neatly in line next to the other insulin. The daily ritual of injecting Lantus is pretty important, since the Lantus is long acting and helps maintain our blood sugar throughout a twenty-four-hour period. I seems like lately Robert has mentioned he couldn’t remember whether or  not he had taken his Lantus, so I was particularly pleased with myself for paying attention as I took good care and lined the vial up in the cabinet.

The other night, as we stood next to each other at the bathroom counter, cabinets open and needles poised for injections, Robert looked at the insulin and got an odd look on his face. I assumed he had realized I’d righted his Lantus, and was probably internalizing how lucky he was to have such a great girlfriend as me. But his look was more confused than ecstatic.

“What?” I asked.

“Hmmm. I thought I took my Lantus.” He said. Wow, he had forgotten yet again.

“I always tip the bottle on its side after I take it. I could have sworn I’ve taken it already.”

Uh Oh.

Clearly our realities were at odds on this one. Luckily he understood my good intentions, and we were able to share a good laugh.

 

 

 

March 9, 2016 Posted by | Uncategorized | , , , , , , , | 1 Comment

You’re Never Too Old

I ventured over to Taco Bell for my weekly fix of cheesy  nacho griller. It’s a delicious little concoction that involves a flour tortilla, taco meat, cheese and tortilla strips, all wrapped up and grilled to golden perfection. As I entered I noticed a table of five senior citizens, obviously having a group outing. I smiled at them and took my place in line, trying not to be annoyed that the woman in front of me was placing several orders. The door in the front of the lobby opened, and I saw another senior man walk in, followed by a young woman.

The old man headed straight toward the front of the line, and he looked at me with watery blue eyes, and with a smile declared “Yibbity, gibbety, jibbery.” Clearly he was demented. I smiled and motioned for him to take the place in front of me in line, and the young woman accompanying him thanked me. The old gentleman smiled again, and I was pretty sure I saw him wiggle his bushy, gray eyebrows up and down. It became obvious that the group of seniors were all suffering from Alzheimers or dementia, and the young women were their handlers. I listened to the gibberish being spoken by those gathered at the table, and observed the gentleman in front of me. Even though I didn’t understand any of his words, his positive demeanor and attitude let me know he was a pretty happy fellow. Good for him.

They got their food and joined the others at the table, and I ordered my griller. With treat in hand I headed toward the door. The table of elders was directly in my path, and I smiled at all of them as I approached. And I noticed a spark in the eyes of the gentleman I had met. Again, even though he said no words I could understand, it was obvious to me what he was thinking. I had seen that look before, on the faces of men both young and old. He looked me directly in the eyes and smiled, then his eyes lowered, paused, then lowered again, then paused, then slowly worked their way back up to mine. His smile grew slightly bigger, and indeed his eyebrows wiggled up and down. I had to laugh, as I had just been checked out, quite thoroughly, by an old man. Good for him. I guess you’re never too old to appreciate a thing of beauty.

 

February 26, 2016 Posted by | Uncategorized | , , , , , , | Leave a comment

Ignorance Is Not Prejudice

Well, it’s official. I’ve done the unthinkable. I’ve offended someone. I used a socially offensive term. To someone’s face. A term that incited anger and retaliation from the party I offended. And he happened to be a pretty scary dude to be offending.

Yup, I offended the fella with tattooed arms, the owner of a leather vest with all manner of patches on it. The word that brought the full wrath of this 250-pound plus man down upon me was “gang.” I used it innocently enough, reciting a report I had heard on the news about a recent shooting at a gathering of bikers in downtown Denver. I’m sure the word “Biker,” is probably equally offensive, but I’m pretty sure this guy will never read my blog so for the sake of the story, I’ll allow it.

He was behind the counter, talking about the incident with the guy in front of me. When they turned to include me in the conversation I committed my faux pas. The big guy gave me a stern look and silently turned his back to me.  When he turned around and was holding his black leather vest. He slammed it down on the counter and pointed to a patch on the back of it.

“What does this say?” He demanded.

“MC,” I read it to him, a bit confused.

“That’s right. It’s not MG, it’s MC. Motorcycle club, it’s motorcycle club, not motorcycle gang.” He stared at me, and I immediately expressed my apologies.

“Wow, I’m really sorry. I didn’t mean any offense.” It stung a little at that moment to realize that I should have at least given it some thought, but A. I wasn’t there to write a politically correct article on the guy, B. I didn’t know he was a member of a motorcycle club, and C. I had no idea the term was offensive. I believed my reprimand should have ended there, and would like it to have been followed up with a polite conversation about how to avoid the mistake in the future, maybe the history of motorcycle clubs, or anything that would let me know that we had reached a mutual truce.

But he continued on. For another several minutes. While he scanned my items, took my  money and I was headed out the door.

“We’ve never been gangs.”

Okay, I get it. I did feel stupid for offending him. But then I got angry. How was I supposed to know what was offensive to everyone? I simply haven’t spent much time around certain groups of people. Like motorcycle club members, Hispanics, Native Americans, African Americans, Irish, Amish, Polygamists, Cowboys, Ballerinas, Vegans, etc. How are we to know?

I know there are many times in my daily life that I have to decide whether to take offense or not, and when that happens I usually choose not. The older I get, the more inclined I am to let stuff go, mostly because it’s not worth wasting my time to get upset over things that simply don’t matter.

But I’m genuinely bothered that this guy wouldn’t let it go. That he probably spent the rest of his day being angry at me. So, if anyone reading this is from any particular culture, race, sex, age, religion or lifestyle of diversity, and you might have pointers for me to avoid this situation in the future, please send them my way.

 

 

 

 

February 10, 2016 Posted by | Uncategorized | , , , , , , , | Leave a comment

Brilliance vs. Insanity

We spent an awesome weekend in Breckenridge checking out the Budweiser International Snow Sculpting Festival. Artists from around the world came to carve huge blocks of packed snow into intricate sculptures, each depicting a theme or message. Robert’s favorite was “Bolting From Extinction,” which featured a life-sized elephant head on top of a bolt. My favorite was “Love Wins,” which included an angry fist being stopped by the palm of a hand. The results really were amazing, and I couldn’t help but wonder how someone came upon the particular gift of ice carving. It took dedication, and an ability to work in freezing temperatures.

After viewing the sculptures we headed across Main Street to see something called Fire Sculptures. We needn’t have worried about getting lost, as we were guided by 12 foot flames shooting into the sky. As we approached the square where the displays were, curiosity, then awe set in. The sculptures were made of huge metal pieces, including one that resembled organ pipes. Children stepped up to play the organ, and with each stroke of the keys flames shot straight up out of the pipes into the night sky. Another was a round, hula-hoop looking tube that spun within another hoop, again children took the controls and spun the exhibit, triggering bursts of flames at each turn. The effect against the night sky, along with the very cold temperatures, was mesmerizing, and we muscled our way through the crowd to get a better look.

The third sculpture resembled a large metal spider, with long legs spread out to steady the huge steel ball in the center. Inside the ball was another, smaller ball, and the balls spun simultaneously, with fire deep in the belly of both balls. As they spun faster, the flames morphed and whipped into amazing shapes, and the legs trembled under the weight and force. I couldn’t imagine how someone would even think up such a contraption, then wondered what it would be like to have that thought in your head. Did you see it in a dream? Did you add to it each day? Was the need to build this thing in your head all-consuming? I figured it must be an artist thing. I knew nothing of the artist who created this, but I did know it had to have taken a lot of time and a lot of money to build. Which made me ponder. This was an incredible art display, but what about the person with the same vision in his head, but no money to build it? Were some of the “crazy” people wandering around downtown Denver collecting metal simply trying to bring their own visualization to life? Was their brilliance being confused with insanity? Perhaps money is the fine line between the two.

fire sculpture

February 3, 2016 Posted by | Uncategorized | , , , , , , , , , | Leave a comment

I TRIED A FAD DIET…AND I LIKED IT

I remember a time, long ago, in a galaxy far, far away, when I would scoff at emails promoting fad diets. Younger and smug about my weight, I confidently deleted every one that came through my inbox promising fast weight loss, belly fat secrets and the latest fat burning gimmick.

Oh, how the mighty have fallen. Now I find myself searching the internet looking for anything that will help me lose weight. Twenty years ago I was pretty fat, nearly 200 pounds. Then, by the ironic grace of diabetes, lost weight and enjoyed a pretty easy maintenance weight of about 120. Let’s just say I’m not as big as I once was, but the memory of being fat is still clear in my mind, and fuels my fear of getting there again.

Now there are several factors at play. Age, a slower metabolism, a medication change and, by my own doing, several months of overindulgence and under-exercising. Having cleared all medical reasons for an unbudging weight, and sticking to an exercise routine for nearly 30 days, I was absolutely desperate to see a change in the scale. I could feel the effects of weight-lifting sessions, and I was almost certainly getting toner, but as women, and I guess as humans, we rely heavily on the opinion of inanimate objects—aka the almighty scale. How a small, metal object came to have such control over our lives I will never know, and I had even tried to banish it into a secret place where I would never look at it again. But alas, I found myself drawn to it, like a moth to a flame, yearning for its daily praise, only to be shattered when I stood upon it and faced its judgment of my failure to succeed.

Eager to please the judgmental little demon, I searched the internet for diets that promised quick results, and after reading dozens of reviews decided to try the Military Diet. Like all fad diets, the concept of burning more calories than you take in made sense, as well as the thought that certain foods, when eaten together can speed up your metabolism and hasten fat burning. There were the usual extreme reviews ranging from it’s not about calories its about carbs, or vegan only, or juices only, or organic only. Each I believe held a little truth, and certainly some were perfect for some people, but I wanted to see result fast.

The only way to know was to try it, so I printed out the routine and brought it home to Robert. He indulges me often, and since we’ve been on a weight loss journey together, he agreed to try it with me. Details aren’t necessary, but the next three days involved grapefruit, lots of tuna, eggs and a bit of ice cream. Amazingly I wasn’t often hungry, had plenty of energy and kept exercising, and actually lost five pounds. I found myself motivated once again, and no longer obssessed about the most satisfying way to destroy the demonic scale. Why, or how the diet worked I’m sure could be ripped apart and ridiculed by some experts, but I don’t really care. I feel better, and I learned a couple of things that will help me in my journey.

First, I learned what it felt like to feel hungry again. Not starving hungry, but to not have a full belly. I don’t remember the last time my stomach wasn’t full, believing that a snack was necessary, or eating because I was bored. I had had a full belly for years, and it turns out maybe the occasional hunger pain is good for me. It made me feel a little more alive, and a little more aware of what I was actually putting in my body.

Secondly, I learned that 300 calories of food, in the form of apples, tuna, salmon or vegetables is actually a crap-load of food. Several times we struggled to complete the entire meal, and were uncomfortably full after finishing.

And lastly, it was good to love food again. I don’t usually care for salmon, but by the end of the second day, as I walked on the treadmill and thought of my upcoming dinner, I found myself actually craving the salmon. Granted, had I not been on the diet I probably would have felt the same way about a big plate of fettuccine alfredo, but at that moment, and later as I sat down at the dinner table, I loved that 4 ounces of salmon as much as my favorite pasta.

 

January 21, 2016 Posted by | Uncategorized | , , , , , , , , , , , , | Leave a comment

Death By Packaging

I had always believed my death would be noble, exciting, tragically romantic. But, no. I’m pretty sure the culprit of my death will be simple packaging. Either I will get a flesh eating infection from cutting myself trying to liberate my daily vitamins, or I will simply starve to death because I can’t get any of the packages that contain life-saving nutrients open.

In an effort to prevent my death as long as possible, I, like many middle-aged women, decided it was time to start taking a vitamin supplement. It’s literally a hard pill to swallow, because it means the time has come that your body is holding out on all the wonderful things it used to give you in your youth. Such as, oh, hormones, vitamins and the stuff that keeps your bones strong. (At least that’s what the bottle claims.) So, anyhoo, I woke up convinced that I was doing the right thing, and this was one step into prolonging my life.

Until I tried to open the bottle. There was a clear wrap sealed around the cap—no tab to pull, no perforated lines I could see, (even with my reader glasses). Just a slippery, tight seal. No worries, I grabbed my trusty kitchen knife, pried up the seal, which, by the way stretched and refused to break until I was literally holding it down on the counter and using all my might. Finally I poked enough of a hole in it to slice it off. I pulled the cap off and damn! There was another tight paper seal covering the top of the bottle. This one did have the tiniest tab that was meant to be used to pull the top off, but it was too tiny to grip with any strength, and as I tugged at it I wondered what people who have arthritis do. What would I do ten years from now? But again, my trusty knife saved me, as I speared the paper and pulled it off. Then, there was a huge piece of cotton stuffed into the top. At this point I just went directly at it with the knife. My fingers wouldn’t fit far enough in to grasp it, so I just tipped the bottle, speared the offending cotton with my knife and drug it out. Excellent! I quickly doled out the vitamin and took it, hoping it would begin working immediately and offset the five minute of my life I just lost trying to get the bottle open.

In keeping with good health, and being diabetic, I vowed to check my blood sugar even more often than usual. Adding an exercise routine to a diabetic lifestyle is always a little tricky, as healthier bodies usually require a little less insulin, and thus results in more blood sugar lows than normal, requiring insulin adjustments as you go. Not a problem when you plan for it, like I always do, but again, I lost precious minutes from my life trying to get the new box of test strips open. I wonder this—if you put something in a thick box that can be closed with a tab, what is the reason for taping the tab closed with industrial tape? The result is, with the help of the kitchen knife of course, the tab stays completely closed and I end up tearing the box apart around it. It’s like tearing an envelope apart without ever opening the seal. It makes no sense!

At this point I must say that there is a slim chance getting older just makes navigating packages harder. I really don’t think that is the case here. Especially if you’ve ever had to use a pair of scissors, to, you know, cut a pair of scissors out of the package.

So, after a day of taking my vitamin, drinking my tea (which required the kitchen knife to open,) testing my blood sugar and eating right, I felt pretty great when I went to bed. I had stocked the fridge with high protein/high sugar drinks in case of low blood sugar, it had to be better than Oreos or Nutter Butter bars. I was pretty pleased with myself as I drifted off to sleep.

Several hours later I awoke to the familiar feeling of low blood sugar. It’s a very distinct feeling that I can only describe as my bones turning to liquid. It feels like my body is shriveling into itself, and is accompanied by a surge of adrenaline that causes tunnel vision, trembling and confusion. Being an old pro, however, I jumped out of bed and headed for the kitchen. I grabbed a bottle of the delicious chocolate protein drink and sat down at the table. The great thing about liquid sugar is that you can pound it like a frat boy pounds a beer and just sit back and wait for it to kick in. Taffy, peanut butter and anything else that is sticky in nature is a nightmare to eat when you’re on the verge of passing out, and to be avoided except in case of extreme emergencies.

I tried to twist the cap of my chocolate drink, and, again, due to confusion, didn’t immediately understand why it wasn’t coming off. I tried, I tried again, then I got up and retrieved the flat rubber gripper thing that helps with tight lids. Nothing happened. Panic-stricken I realized the reason. The damn lid was covered with a clear plastic seal, just like the vitamins! Dammit! After all the dieting and exercising the last thing I wanted to do was eat 1,000 calories in cookies. I tried desperately to find a tab to grab or pull, and seriously considered grabbing the kitchen knife. But, no. It is never a good idea to do battle with a bottle using a sharp knife when your hands are shaking, you can’t see straight and your knees feel like they’re going to abandon you at any time. I calmly set the bottle down and went for the Nutter Butters.

Diabetes is a disease of irony. Sugar, the very thing that can bring us to an early death and is strictly forbidden, is also the one thing that can save our lives at a time like this. To be eaten with reckless abandon until the episode passes, and this particular night it had been weeks since I’d had any kind of sugary treat. So honestly, aside from the scary feeling, shaking, sweating and all that, secretly I sometimes embrace the low blood sugar episodes.

Desperate and pissed about the turn of events, I grabbed a yogurt and a Nutter Butter Bar. The Nutter Butter opened easily, with a small tear of my teeth. The yogurt was slightly harder, but determined, I grabbed the foil seal with my canine teeth and pulled a small bit off. I remembered when you could just pull the plastic lid off yogurt, but now it comes with its super-protective, super tight seal. It was as I battled the yogurt that I saw my death. I would be found in the morning, unopened food packages strewn about the kitchen, some thrown against the wall like an animal in a primitive attempt to release the contents, my final words smeared in the splattered chocolate milk or yogurt…

Alas, I finally freed the yogurt, and in the grand manner that only a panicked diabetic can pull off, I used the Nutter Butter as a spoon to shovel the yogurt into my mouth as fast as I could, eating the delicious peanut buttery spoon with each bite. I obviously lived to see another day, but am considering taking up activism to fight for the equal rights of all people to have access to good food. And I mean access quite literally.

January 15, 2016 Posted by | Uncategorized | , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , | Leave a comment

May the Bird of Paradise Fly Up Your Nose

May the bird of paradise fly up your nose, may an elephant caress you with his toes…” Those were the lyrics of a song by Little Jimmy Dickens that my parents used to listen to when I was growing up. I’ve always remembered the words to this song, and as an adult I realized this song was all about Karma. And if ever there was a time to call upon Karma, this morning was it.

I hiked to the bus stop on Broadway to catch the 0 bus to work, and as I approached the bus shelter I saw a man I have come to refer to as our local Camper. He’s older, and sleeps along the canal road in a small shelter he made for himself out of branches and logs. He’s always been respectful when our paths cross. He’s never asked for money, and is always up early to break his camp and get on the road. Usually I see him tramping up Broadway with his backpack, I suspect heading nowhere in particular.

Occasionally he was at the bus shelter before I arrived, and was always courteous as I approached. If he was smoking a cigarette, he would step around the back of the shelter so I wouldn’t have to smell it. If not, he would stand up and move out of the shelter, insisting I take the seat to wait for the bus. He never spoke, but I got an occasional grunt and nod in response to my greeting.

Today he was standing next to the shelter, and two young men were sitting on the bench inside the shelter. I greeted the camper as I approached, and he nodded silently. He seemed out of sorts, at least as out of sorts as a stranger can be. I noticed immediately that the two young men also appeared to be homeless—their several layers of clothes were filthy, as were their hands and the white plastic bags that held their belongings. They sat on the bench inside the shelter, smoking cigarettes and talking. Their conversation was laced with expletives, and they acted as if they hadn’t noticed my arrival. I wondered how, and why the Camper came to be hanging out with these two. Clearly they were not of the same caliber of people he was.

The Camper seemed frustrated and a little embarrassed at the behavior of his two friends, and avoided making any eye contact with me. I stood to the other side of the shelter, trying to avoid the cigarette smoke, vulgar conversation and general stink of these two youngsters. When the bus arrived, however, the Camper stood up and took the front of the line, they motioned for me to get on first. I thanked him, paid my fare and took a seat near the front.

The stinky young men flashed their transfers and headed to the back of the bus, where they continued their awful interaction. I was glad they hurried to the back and hopefully, after putting on my headphones, I wouldn’t have to listen to them anymore. After fishing my headphones out of my bag, I looked up to see the driver and the Camper in a discussion. The Camper’s eyes narrowed, and he hollered at the two men in the back of the bus.

Hey man, I need that transfer you promised.” That explained a lot. He was hanging with them because they promised him a free bus ride, probably downtown to a food bank or shelter where he could get something to eat. I suspect he traded cigarettes for the promise. Downtown was a good five or six mile walk. I couldn’t fault him for that exchange.

Dude, sorry. We only have one for two of us.” The two laughed at having fooled the old man. The Camper’s eyes glowed with rage, and I could tell he would love to get them alone in a dark alley. And I kind of hoped he would someday. He couldn’t mask the shame he must have felt, as everyone on the bus looked at him, knowing he would be put off the bus because of lack of fare. The pride on his face at that moment reminded me of my father. A man who was proud of who he was, regardless of circumstance.

I pulled out my book of transit passes and walked up to the driver.

I’ll pay this fare.” I said. The Camper looked me directly in the eyes and gave me a slight nod. I don’t know which was harder for him to accept—being duped by a couple of stinky bums, or having to accept my help. I smiled at him and hoped he would go directly to the back of the bus and confront the little snots, as their laughing had died down when they realized he would be riding the bus with them after all.

But he didn’t. He took the first seat at the front of the bus, placed his backpack at his feet, and silently faced the front.

I, however, invoked the power of Karma. “May the bird of paradise fly up your snotty, stinky, horrible little noses.

January 13, 2016 Posted by | Uncategorized | , , , , , , , , , | Leave a comment

Happy New Year

Hi Ho, Hi Ho, it’s off to the gym I go…

Well, I did it. I joined the however many other millions of Americans who decided to get healthy by committing to a gym this year. I do feel a bit superior to them because Robert and I actually joined Youfit gym about a month ago, in hopes of staving off the devastating effects of holiday feeding. Technically, I’m a veteran gym goer by about 30 days.

So it was from atop my high treadmill that I looked down over the crowd to check out all the newcomers. The class room, which to date had been void of any activity, was now full of more than 20 women, and one man, dancing, stepping and skipping their way through what looked like a hip-hop exercise class. Many of the ladies had ample assets that they threw around, and their brightly colored Spandex pants accentuated their movements. I made several mental cracks to myself about the goings-on in that classroom. None of my thoughts were nice, and many were down-right mean if they had been said out loud. I don’t know why we, as humans, feel the need to crack jokes at the expense of others, but there was plenty of fodder to feed my petty soul as I watched them bouncing around.

We took our turns at the weight-lifting machines, Robert and I alternating as we grunted and worked our way through the routine. Between my reps I checked out the hard-core gym-goers who hang out in the free-weight area. These are the buff, pretty people, who make Spandex look like its on the store model. The buff guy with the big guns did pull-ups, the tattooed lady lunged across the floor with what looked to be a ton of weights on her back. The two young men alternated adding more weight to their leg presses.

But I kept being drawn to the room of dancing people. Many were uncoordinated and had a hard time keeping in step with the enthusiastic instructor, but the fellow seemed to be getting better, and some of the women I assumed wouldn’t last 10 minutes were still hanging in there. “Must be a 30 minute class,” I thought. “I could do that for 30 minutes,” I thought.

After the weights we took to some light aerobic exercise, and another 30 minutes later they were still hip-hopping in that room. I couldn’t believe it. All my horrible thoughts about “those” people not being able to stick it out, and they were kicking my judgmental ass. I had done moderate exercise the entire time, and they had all been going full throttle for more than an hour! I used my new workout towel that Becky gave me for Christmas to wipe the egg off my face.

New New Year’s Resolution: Don’t be so damn judgmental.

`

January 8, 2016 Posted by | Uncategorized | , , , , , , , , | 2 Comments

Another Year Older…

Another Year Older…

               Yesterday signaled the end of one year. 365 days. But as I reflect on the past year, it feels to me like it is the end of a lifetime, and the beginning of a new one.

               2013 brought me the news that Jess was going to have a baby, and a short nine months later, Petra was here. Jess and Za moved to Colorado and settled into a nice home in Longmont, and I moved into a nice home with Robert, where both of our families merged nicely for the holidays. I spend a good portion of my time tending house, which I actually enjoy. Hosting parties, cooking dinners and enjoying meals and leisure time in front of the fire turns out to be things I enjoy very much, although they are a lifetime away from my tiny apartment downtown, where the morning cup of coffee was the only thing I ever really cooked and enjoyed there.

               For more than 20 years I mostly lived the life of a single woman, not worrying about a mate or what they would or would not want. I lived a life of survival while Jess was at home, then one of indulgence and often gluttony as I bounced from place to place, telling myself it was only until Jess settled down and gave me grandchildren, then I would consider settling myself.

And here it is.

Already.

 Time for me to think about my future. And maybe apply myself just a little bit.

               My immediate future holds for me, for the first time in more than a decade, the challenge of losing weight. I’ve gotten soft and fat (or at least 12 pounds bigger) since I quit smoking, fell in love and moved to the suburbs. Like most of my life, I haven’t had to put a lot of thought into my weight, and could enjoy McDonald’s for breakfast, Taco Bell for lunch and mac and cheese for dinner without gaining weight. I like to pretend it’s the not smoking that has led to my weight gain, but the stubborn roll that has settled around my belly is screaming “pre-menopause.”

               My easy choices are endless. The internet is ripe with quick-fixes. Garcinia, Green Coffee Bean Extract, body cleanses and dozens of other products that claim to melt the fat away without my having to actually do anything. Unfortunately, I know better, so while it’s tempting to try them, I think I will shy away from the easy route and try the old-fashioned cure; smaller portions, more exercise, less alcohol.

Maybe an old-fashioned corset will be the answer.

              

                

January 2, 2014 Posted by | Uncategorized | , , , , , , , , | Leave a comment